Sick
by LadySilvermist
Summary: She's sick anyways. She's going to die. Why not at his hands? And while thats going on, why not make a last request? NnyxOC, very very very light "romance",and as always with me, character death.


Another cut, to my face this time, close to my eye. I just smiled. That seemed to infuriate him. "You think this is funny? You still laugh at me?" He hisses, his face red with rage and a strange, twisted sort of hurt.

"I never laughed at you." It was the truth. I never laughed at him. Who was I to laugh at anyone, especially the one guy I knew wouldn't laugh at me?

"DON'T FUCKING LIE! I _HEARD_ YOU!" Another cut, across my arm. He looks livid and scared and confused. It would be so much easier on him if I just said I had laughed at him. No guilt on his part and it would all end for me. But on the other hand, that would deprive him of the chance of knowing that there were people out there that weren't assholes. Call me insane if you like, that I can remain so calm and concerned about the thin, dark-haired maniac who has me in his clutches. It's funny, what I life of anger and pain does to you. You either end up insane like him, or insane like me. Personally, I enjoy his insanity. It gives me hope to know someone is out there cleaning pedophiles and assholes and rapists off the streets.

"I'm not lying to you. I didn't laugh at you. What purpose would that serve?" I look down at him from the machine I'm strapped into. He's starting to look unsure of himself. "What could I possibly gain from that? Furthermore, why would I waste valuable time making someone else feel bad about themselves?" I coughed, and a small dribble of blood dripped out of the corner of my mouth. He stepped back quickly as it splattered onto the ground, growling in disgust. "I'm sorry about that," I tell him, rolling my head back against the wall. "I'm very sick."

This piques his interest. "Sick?" He inquires, staring up at me.

"Cancer." I smile slightly. "I'm going be dead in less than a week. It's aggressive lung cancer, they can't treat it. They tried. Lots of chemotherapy, lots of radiation." His boots clack on the floor. It's a soothing sound, like rain. I keep talking. "That's why I don't scream when you cut me up. I've felt worse. Besides, you're going to kill me, yes? You're doing me a favor. You don't scream at someone who's being nice to you. The name's Alice, by the way." His face is scrunched up in thought. It's a cute expression.

"I'm not being nice. Killing people isn't nice." He's staring at the floor now, completely ignoring my mention of my name. He doesn't respond with his, just stares. I feel bad for him. He's just as sick as me. But he's going to live through it, and that is very sad.

"It's a nice thing for me. I'm in a lot of pain here. It'll be a relief to die." He really is goodlooking. I shouldn't be thinking that, but I am. I'm 17, I'm dying of lung cancer and I've never even been kissed, and my captor/torturer/murderer is very cute. These are facts, and I cannot change them. "Hey, maybe a kiss before I die, eh? Never really had one. Sad for me, no?" I chuckle at the absurdity of my request. In a flash his knife is at my throat.

"STOP LAUGHING AT ME YOU BITCH," He screams. His eyes are wild. I should have known better than to laugh.

"Not laughing at you. Laughing at me." It's getting hard to breath. I'm not sure if it's the cancer, of if the machine is squeezing me. "Laughing at my own absurd request."

He looks at me suspiciously. "I don't believe you. Although…you might be telling the truth. It was a stupid thing to ask. I'm not going to kiss you. The very thought disgusts me."

I try not to let him see how that hurt me. It's not like I know him well enough to even like him, but rejection still hurts, in every form it takes. I guess I'll die un-kissed. His knife comes away from my throat. He's quiet.

"…Your feelings are hurt." It's not a question.

"Yes." No point in denying it. "Rejection hurts."

I hear him sigh. "Yeah. It does." We sit in silence for a few minutes. Then he suprises me. "My name is Nny," He says, and then he kisses me. His lips press against mine, tentative and exploring. I smile, even as I cry a bit because I KNOW that this is the end. His lips are soft, even though they are chapped. It's nothing deep, but that somehow makes it better. A soft kiss on the lips. Like a kiss goodnight. I almost don't even notice when the knife ghosts across my throat, severing vital arteries. The doctors were right. Death is just like falling asleep. It's nice to have gotten a kiss goodnight.

Dear Die-ary:

I killed a girl today who said her name was Alice. She was thin and pale and sick. She insisted she didn't laugh at me and I think I was wrong this time and she was right. I killed her anyway. But I kissed her first...I kissed her because she asked me to. It was different. She mumbled something about a kiss goodnight as she bled out. I felt bad. Am I better or worse?


End file.
